She was spurred on by her success, wondering what to do next; then a battered cookery book caught her eye. As she lifted it down from its home it fell open at a section that had obviously seen more use than the rest. She turned the pages to find a fund of recipes, many with penciled notes in the margins in beautiful copperplate script. Things like: This recipe is over a hundred years old and came from my great-grandmother and is given to the children at Hogmanay. Hogmanay is derived from the Norse word for fairy. The festival is very much bound up with superstition, although some prefer to call it tradition. Or this little gem: Spread with butter and rowan jelly; best eaten the same day. Not for Duncan with his troublesome indigestion. Sympathizing with poor Duncan, whoever he was, for being deprived of this mouth-watering if indigestible treat, she read on, Don’t drown the miller. Presumably a warning not to add too much water to a pastry mixture. Of the humble haggis it informed: A must for Burns Supper. Carry to the table to the accompaniment of pipe music. Serve with a dram of whiskey to toast the immortal memory of Scotland’s ain Rabbie Burns. But by far the most intriguing message of all was next to a recipe for a rich chocolate cake. Maxwell’s favorite. I always make it for him as a special birthday treat. When was Maxwell’s birthday? she wondered, flicking the pages back to a simple oatmeal biscuit recipe.
They had fallen into the Scottish way of eating a midday dinner and a high tea. They left the dining room closed and either ate at the kitchen table or, and this was now Gemma’s favorite way, made it a tray meal, sitting deep in the armchairs. It was pleasant to draw the heavy curtains against the night and toast their toes before a leaping log fire. The fact that she had started baking was received in taciturn Scots fashion. Although Maxwell made no comment, his hand went back several times to the old-fashioned cake stand which Gemma had found in a cupboard. She was flattered that not a crumb was left on his plate.
Sitting across from him one evening, Gemma decided that if she’d described this to anyone a picture of cozy domesticity and companionable harmony would have sprung to mind, a picture which couldn’t have been farther from the truth. The freeze was on in the house as well as outside; it had been ever since her unsuccessful bid to escape and the emotional scene that had taken place afterward. Things had gone too far between them—yet not far enough. Sometimes she looked at him and caught a glint in his eye that told her he was regretting that bringing-her-to-heel kiss which had snowballed on him. He hadn’t meant it to deepen the way it had, stirring things already on the boil between them, the antagonism melting beneath a surge of longing, a hunger that demanded appeasement in only one way, a hunger denied and therefore more rampant in its demands.
She noticed the way his hands cupped the arms of his chair, an action that seemed to annoy him because he dragged them fiercely away as if the feel of the padded leather contours was too reminiscent of firm rounded flesh. He would crush his fingers together as if crushing the memory from him. He wore an agonized look on his face, but she felt the pain. She felt responsible and she couldn’t bear it Not that she was solely responsible for his brooding preoccupation; Ian was also on his mind.
Her ability to read his moods was startling. She was like a transmitter picking up his thoughts so that she knew when her presence was causing him agony and when he was sad because now that Angus couldn’t get through by boat he didn’t have a daily account of his brother’s condition. For all he knew Ian could be picking up or, and she read the fear of this in his eyes, he might have given up the struggle.
She tried to harden her heart against him, telling herself that he was in the wrong for bringing her here. The latent regret he had shown was only because of the remoteness of the island. He had said nothing about letting her go once they got to the mainland and she was sure that he still intended to take her to see Ian the moment he was up to receiving visitors. Even though his motive was understandable, and to some extent praiseworthy, as the victim it was stupid of her to be in sympathy with him. But she was. She couldn’t help herself. Every time she felt that she was steeling herself against him a weakness invaded her mind and she wanted to reach out to him, wrap her arms round him, kiss the mockery from his mouth and take away his suffering.
For herself, the time was passing quite nicely. If she hadn’t been concerned for Maxwell and saddened by thoughts of the worry she might be causing back home she could have enjoyed the break, looked upon it as a highlight in a life that had become mundane. Although the vague stirrings had been there before she hadn’t been aware just how mundane until she got away. What of any importance had she left behind? Work that was pleasant enough but lacked the ability to fulfill her. A charming little cottage, the cost of which ate deeply into her salary and the upkeep of which took up most of her free time. Dates with Barry that she had come to regard as routine rather than enjoyable. A television serial she had watched conscientiously through to the next but last installment.
Here she was comfortably housed, with any number of diversions at her fingertips. Good food to eat, good books to read, good music to listen to, and the company of a man who intrigued, infuriated, and fascinated her. No television, true. She would have liked to have watched the last installment of that serial because now, unless there was a repeat at some time in the future, she would never know who the murderer was. But, that apart, she wasn’t an addict and hardly missed the box.
Outside it snowed, thawed, and froze by turn. Gemma found that by choosing her time and the path she took very carefully she didn’t have to be confined indoors. She had always been a good walker and took the wind, the sleet, and the snow in stride. Her sheepskin coat and boots were blissfully warm and she muffled her head in a long scarf of Maxwell’s. She enjoyed the sharp crunch of snow beneath her feet and watched out for the hazardous drifts that leveled the land and hid enormous gulleys.
Quite often Maxwell walked with her, with her but apart. An invisible barrier had come down between them which was difficult to penetrate. Sometimes he looked at her as if he hated her and she found herself getting angry with him about that, but she did her best to disguise it. She never discovered whether he walked with her to protect her, because he considered the exercise beneficial or because he shared her enthusiasm for walking. She suspected that it was a combination of all three.
She had hoped that winter had merely cracked its whip in a token warning to show the extent of its power, but instead of getting milder, after a freak thaw, the barometer dropped sharply. The snow was hard-packed and slippery underfoot, and Iola was held in a grip of ice. The small loch froze over. She remembered what Maxwell had told her, on their first walk together, about testing the ice when he was a boy to see if it was safe to skate on. It had been a boyhood memory full of nostalgia and she had felt privileged to share it.
As they paused to look across the frozen expanse only his eyes were turned frontward. She could tell that his thoughts were again digging back into the past.
‘Where are the skates now, Maxwell?’ she inquired, a speculative look on her face, then answered her own question. ‘I suppose that when you grew out of them they were thrown away.’
‘I doubt it. Grandmother was what the English call a horder and the Scots call canny. She saved anything and everything in case it would come in useful at some future date. I’ve no doubt that my old skates are tucked away upstairs somewhere in a cupboard or a trunk’
‘There is a trunk upstairs. A very old one.’
‘Grandmother’s memory trunk. Everything went in there, all the junk and relics of our childhood. It’s even possible that a pair of outgrown and outdated skates will have found an honorable burial there. Why the interest?’
‘I thought perhaps I’d like to skate.’
‘No. I forbid it.’ The change in his manner was dramatic. One moment he seemed almost amenable, certainly pleasant to talk to, and the next he had reverted to being the unapproachable Highland laird whose word was law. It was imprinted across the dark contours of his face; ‘I will not be disobeyed i
n this.’
‘But you did,’ she challenged.
‘I was a boy, remember. A featherweight,’ he countered with dangerous coldness.
‘I’m not that heavy,’ she replied, but the resolve was slipping from her voice. It seemed to be a pointless argument as she didn’t have any skates and so had no chance of disobeying him even if she could have found the strength of mind to stand up to him.
His teeth gritted. He seemed not to have noticed that she had backed down, because he gripped her arms with bruising force, causing her to wince despite the thickness of her coat. ‘I was young and reckless and wouldn’t listen. But you are damn well going to listen. What’s more, you are going to heed what I tell you. The loch is fed by an underwater spring, so even when it looks safe there’s always a danger. Don’t be like me and find out the hard way, by being on the receiving end of an icy ducking. We thought the grownups were just showing their authority, being overcautious when they made it a condition that we were only allowed to skate when one of them was with us.’
‘Us?’
‘Fiona, Ian, and myself, and any other kids who wanted to tag along. Once we desperately wanted to skate. We’d been waiting for days and just when it seemed right everyone was involved with something else and kept passing us from adult to adult. We decided that if no one could be bothered to come with us we’d go by ourselves. There is one part of the loch, over there by that overhang of trees,’ he said, pointing, ‘where we knew never to go. I thought that if we kept clear of that we’d be okay. Fiona and Ian were of an age, I was three years older and therefore responsible for them. Fiona was doing a bit of showing off, she really could cut quite a dash on the ice, and I was watching her. Ian shouldn’t have been on that side of the loch at all. Apart from the ice being dodgy there, it’s where the water is deepest. The ice gave way; Ian went in. He almost drowned. I thought he had drowned, he was so stiff and cold by the time I got him out After that the loch was out of bounds and, to see that this order was enforced, Grandmother took possession of our skates.’
They walked back to the house in brooding silence. Gemma was sorry that she had brought thoughts of Ian to Maxwell’s mind.
A full week had passed since Angus had last brought any news and her nerves, as well as his, were stretched to breaking point. Browsing through the books Gemma found a copy of Robert Louis Stevenson’s Treasure Island. Robert Louis Stevenson was a Scot, she remembered, whose own life, if not quite as adventurous as his books, had been full of travel. But he came back to Scotland long enough to write Treasure Island, a book intended to amuse his stepson, but which brought him fame as a writer and had been enchanting boys and girls ever since.
This copy could equally have belonged to Ian, but, just by the feel of it as she touched the binding, she knew that it was Maxwell’s. She opened it and found a double reason to rejoice. Not only was her hunch correct that it was Maxwell’s book, but the writing on the flyleaf told her that it had been given to him on his ninth birthday. The giver, his grandmother, had thoughtfully put the date in full. By her calculations he would be thirty-one—when? She scrambled to her feet and raced through the house to check with the pretty kitchen calendar. It was as she thought. Maxwell’s birthday was tomorrow!
She remembered that penciled message she had come across about Maxwell’s favorite chocolate cake, a thoughtful expression on her face. She lifted the cookery book down from the shelf and studied the recipe. The instructions were very detailed and it required only basic ingredients that could be found in the pantry. What had she to lose? She wrapped Morag’s voluminous apron round her waist and began to make Maxwell’s birthday treat
She set the kitchen timer and while the cake was baking she searched through various cupboards and drawers, hoping to find a child’s paint box, having it in mind to make a birthday card for Maxwell. She found a stiffish piece of paper that was suitable, but no paints. She did, however, find the stubs of several crayons which would do almost as well.
She waited until the chocolate cake was baked and lifted it out of the oven. Then she took the crayons and paper upstairs to her room, where she wouldn’t be interrupted while she worked on his birthday card. She wanted to have a stab at drawing the loch, and the window from her room provided as good a view as any.
She looked out for a long time, letting the scene paint itself in her mind, getting the feel of the ice-covered loch, the snow-heavy sky and burdened trees. Then she began. Considering the limited tools at her disposal she was not displeased with her efforts.
With the birthday card burning a hole in her mind, how she contained herself the next day she would never know. To have presented the card before bringing out the cake for his birthday tea would have spoiled the surprise.
The moment finally arrived. ‘Happy birthday,’ she called out, pouncing on him as he entered the room.
He looked from the card to the chocolate cake and back to Gemma’s face. ‘Quite the little sleuth, aren’t you?’
It was difficult to know if he was pleased or whether he thought her childish.
‘I got the date by reading the inscription in your copy of Treasure Island. I’d already found a penciled note in an old cookery book that this cake was a birthday favorite with you.’
‘That would be Grandmother’s handiwork. She considered it too rich for a young stomach, so my intake of it was rationed.’
‘Obviously you preferred it to the traditional birthday cake with icing and candles.’
‘I got one of those as well.’
‘I’ll make a note for next time,’ she said foolishly, thrown off balance by something in his expression she could not identify. She was envious of his total ease as her nerves began to tighten up.
‘Next time? You intend to be around for my next birthday?’ he teased, his dark eyes on her, causing her heart to thud erratically as she blinked in panic and surprise at his softer tone.
Not that she trusted it. It was benign on the surface, but there was a thread of something underneath she didn’t much care for.
Of course she wouldn’t be around for his next birthday. They would have parted company long before then. His mistake about her identity would have come to light and they would have no cause to meet again. Before she had the chance to get out words to this effect he had resumed speaking.
‘There was something else that I always got on my birthday.’
‘Oh?’
‘A birthday kiss. Which I’m afraid I accepted under sufferance. Kissing, I thought, was just for girls.’
‘In that case you won’t feel deprived if we skip that part of the ceremony now.’
‘No,’ he said, coming to stand by her, casting one arm round her shoulders in a light hold. ‘I would feel deprived. Put it there,’ he instructed, tapping his cheek with his free hand.
What was going on in his mind? Would he hold his cheek steady while she reached up to give him the kind of circumspect kiss he would have received from his grandmother? Or did he intend something entirely different? If she twisted free of his arm would she be brought back and made to submit? She realized that by hesitating she was making an issue out of something that might be perfectly innocent. It was just remotely possible that he was teasing her without any devious intent. She quickly stretched to brush her lips against his cheek; the hand left her shoulders and she was free to step back.
‘There, that wasn’t so bad, was it?’ he inquired, coming out from under his mask of light pleasantry and dropping into heavy sarcasm.
‘No.’
She was furious with herself for allowing him to manipulate her into thinking what he had wanted her to think. There was no doubt in her mind that he had deliberately planted the suspicion that he intended to turn a meaningless peck into a moment of high passion. He had been playing with her, showing her that it was possible for him to hold his finger to the flame without getting burned. He had hated it when he lost his cool that time and he had kept his distance ever since. But that hadn’t satisfied
him. He’d had to prove that he could get into a clinch situation and still resist her. Big deal! She’d never considered herself to be irresistible anyway, so it was an empty victory. At the same time she thought it was cruel of him to have thrown her into frightened suspense like that, leading her on when he’d achieved his object, finding enjoyment in her petrified indecision.
‘In answer to a question you put earlier, no, I won’t be around for your next birthday. I can’t get away from you soon enough, and once I do, I hope that I never have to see you again.’
‘All this because I didn’t make a grab for you! Is this the woman scorned act?’
She glared at him, refusing to grant that comment the dignity of an answer, and instead accused, ‘You are the most arrogant, the most sadistic man I have ever met.’
His smile was crusted in ice. ‘And you are the most beautiful, the most desirable woman I’ve ever scorned.’
8
She had made the cake and the birthday card as a gesture of friendship, with no ulterior motive. He had misinterpreted that just as he did everything else about her and he had thought it was meant as a provocative trick. The way to a man’s heart, and all that. Except that he didn’t have a heart, or if he did it was so well hidden that she’d never caught a glimpse of it.
No, that wasn’t true. A man without a heart wouldn’t show such concern for his brother. That was the crux of the matter, his concern for Ian, his determination not to poach.
He might not like her as a person, but the physical attraction between them was strong. Perhaps, all things considered, she ought to be glad that his principles forbade him to steal the girl he thought belonged to his brother. In a straight contest, if she had been Ian’s girl and if Ian hadn’t been in hospital, she suspected that Maxwell would have shown no such scruples and would have considered it every man for himself. She remembered the violent explosion of feeling that had swept through her at his touch. He had only to look at her from under those dark brows to crack the foundations of a lifetime and when he kissed her . . . It was just too much. She wouldn’t have given anything for her chances if he’d decided to make a determined play for her.
Sweet Bondage Page 11